


i am not a gun.

by theamazingpeterparker (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Artist Zayn, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Road Trips, Triggers, Writer Liam, just the way the anxiety is written, liam is anxious a lot, might be triggering i mean, no seriously though tagging is hard, this is a product of my own anxiety so, zayn tries to fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/theamazingpeterparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where liam is a writer and zayn is a painter and things should be easier than they are.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. not as brave or honest as i intended.

**Author's Note:**

> i dont really know where this came from?? sorry  
> unbeta'd (sorry for mistakes)  
> (title from the iron giant, kinda)  
> all of this is fictional!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam asks a lot of questions and Zayn never lies.

“d’you think andromeda thought she was beautiful?” 

  
when zayn looks up, liam is regarding him with a look that seems desperate for an answer. "it's just, like. she got chained to a rock as a sacrifice because her mother thought she was the most beautiful woman ever. do you think it was true? do you think andromeda knew it, or were people just looking at her the wrong way?'

  
zayn scruffs a fist against his jaw, the stubble burning against his knuckles. "i dont know, li,' he finally replies with a shrug, because zayn never lies to liam. 

  
it's quiet for a while longer, but zayn has given up on his painting because he's watching liam wring his fists around his tattered journal, the way he does when he's anxious and trying to drip the words right out of the pages. as usual, liam doesn't notice zayn staring. 

  
"would you want to go away with me, zayn?" liam asks a few moments later. he has his pen stick in the side of his mouth and there's a black smear on the page from where he's scribbled out his thoughts, and zayn feels himself frowning.

  
"are you okay, liam?"

  
he asks because they're holed up in the university's library and liam has been gnawing on the end of his pen for fifteen minutes. today, liam is all pale skin with red fingertips and zayn can tell that today is one of liam's bad days. if he was allowed, he would kiss liam and try to suck all the sadness out of him. but they're not allowed because zayn is a coward and liam doesn't notice when people are in love with him and zayn has accepted that the ache under his ribs will be there for as long as he and liam are friends.

  
"yeah, yeah, i'm fine. just. would you?" unlike zayn, liam lies a lot. 

  
its a week before zayn is supposed to be flying back to bradford for spring break and he should not be contemplating running away with this boy with the puppy dog eyes and ill heart, but he is.

  
"where would we go?" he asks, a teasing smile pulling at his lips to show liam that he won't say yes just yet. but the question is enough for the tension to drain out of liam's face. zayn was a stranger to him on days like this--days that liam was so anxious and quiet that whenever the boy smiled, it threw zayn off. (and he had stopped trying to ask, because zayn didn't know how to just talk to liam.)

  
liam blushes pink when he answers quietly, "i've always wanted to see venice."

  
and instead of thinking about a week with his sisters and mother and father, zayn is thinking about gondalas and small streets and open balcony windows. (he also shouldn't be thinking about wanting to kiss the boy across from him, but sometimes the only way zayn was able to get words out was if he was tucked against liam's chest.) 

  
zayn nudges liam's knee with his toe and smiles warmly at him. "me, too."

  
they only tell niall, because if they tell harry and louis, they wouldnt be allowed to go (because harry would guilt zayn into going back to bradford, and louis would make liam feel worse about himself). niall just shrugs (niall is the rock of the group, despite how often zayn feels like he's bearing most of the weight) and wishes them luck, makes them promise to come back alive. reminds zayn to call his mother.

  
and maybe they've over-romanticized the whole thing, zayn thinks while liam sleeps on his shoulder on the plane. he knows, he  _knows_  this isn't going to fix liam, and he knows he's being selfish (he knew it the moment niall frowned at the word "leaving"). he knows he's not capable of handling liam by himself. he knows liam is cutting ties with his therapist and family and now all he's going to have is zayn and his journal. zayn tells himself that on the days liam wakes up with self-loathing tied around his ankles like rocks, he won't want to even look at zayn. zayn knows how to react by now, though. he knows how to contain the fallout, and knows that when liam snaps at him, it's not personal (even though it still hurts). 

  
zayn knows he's getting too deep into this, especially when liam snuffles softly in his sleep and tucks his face into zayn's neck. zayn thinks if they were colors, liam would be a muted gold.

  
when they land, stumbling out of the airport and hailing a taxi, liam is pressed against the window and zayn just wants to sleep. they find a dingy little hotel, where liam manages to book a room in broken italian and handing over the cash, before the two boys are stumbling down the halls and falling into their room, one bed with a dresser and bathroom that makes zayn claustrophobic just looking at it.

  
"is this okay?" liam asks when he sees the single bed. zayn shrugs and mumbles, "'s fine." because zayn never lies to liam.

  
he does, however, duck out onto the balcony to smoke until his fingers stop shaking. it's only now that he's starting to realise how much of a mess he's in--as if flying to venice would heal liam and make him fall in love. liam was just a sad boy who laughs like he's drowning and zayn--god, zayn has fucked up. he feels like shattered glass, feels his chest tightening with panic and he wonders if this is how liam feels all the time.   
he's on his third cigarette when liam comes out, leans against the iron fence and watches zayn quietly. 'thank you,' he finally says, and zayn grinds the smoke out on the cement below them. zayn just shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets (if zayn was a color, he'd be gray and flat). 

  
that's all they say. zayn crawls into bed before the sun even goes down, wishing liam would join him, but it's not until late late late that night when he finally feels the other boy's warm body pressed against his (sleepy liam is all warm golds and yellows and soft reds and he smells like salt and ink). 

  
the next morning, liam is up before zayn. and, when zayn opens his eyes to a styrofoam cup of coffee and muffin by the bedside from the cafe across the street, there's a thrumming of hope in his chest that this trip is actually going to make liam better (zayn may never lie to liam, but he lies to himself a lot). 

  
when he rolls over to look outside, liam is standing against the balcony, golden sun washing over his shoulders and his head tipped back like he's trying to drink in the rays. zayn itches to paint him. (zayn doesn't ever paint liam, but he lets himself think about what colors he would use-- there would be smears of cereulean in his collarbones and tracing down his veins and his eyelids and knuckles would be lavender and zayn desperately wants to trace salmon pink along the dips of muscle in liam's back. zayn wants to keep him like this forever.)  
liam turns when he hears zayn shift and he grins so bright he looks like a different person, eyes crinkling at the edges and the corners of his mouth pulling wide over his cheeks. "this place is amazing," he says, bounding back into the room and dropping onto the foot of the bed while zayn reaches for the muffin. "the cafe, i sat outside for an hour, i wrote so much, zayn..."

  
this was how liam was the first week of uni--bounding and eager, storming into zayn's dorm almost every night to tell him about how much he loved a class or how he found where to get the best donuts on campus. zayn reminds himself not to get excited about this change in liam--he gives it three more days before liam starts caving in on himself. (liam has made zayn somewhat of a pessimist.) 

  
"theres an art museum, too, we can go if you'd like, we can go anywhere..." liam is practically squirming with excitement while zayn picks at the breakfast brought for him. liam doesn't notice how zayn barely touches the breakfast. liam doesn't notice anything.

  
they gather their things--nothing but hotel room keys and wallets--and liam tugs zayn out of the hotel and down into the streets, brightly pointing out the cafe the small dock where gondalas drift by. this liam is vibrant, when he drags zayn over to the dock and makes zayn pay for a gondala ride (because as excited as liam is, people still make him anxious). 

  
they settle into the boat, zayn on the bench across from liam, and as worried as zayn is for liam's inevitable crash later, he can't help but grin at how happy liam is now. he didn't even bring his journal with him, though zayn sees the outline of a pen in his jacket pocket. and when liam starts asking the man rowing them how to say things in italian, zayn thinks he can do this. liam's not one to have psychotic breaks or throw temper tantrums. the hardest part of this is going to be to stop liam from collapsing in on himself, and zayn will do that even if it means going to a different country every night. zayn puffs out a breath and smiles at liam. zayn can do this. 

  
they drift in mostly silence through the canals of the city, and zayn can pinpoint the exact moments that liam starts to fall apart. when they get off the boat and liam starts scribbling on the back of his hand with his pen, zayn decides there's been enough adventure for the day (even though the gondala only took them 8 blocks down the street, but zayn knows liam is going to start cracking if they don't go somewhere quiet soon). 

  
"let's go back to the hotel, yeah?' zayn asks quietly, nudging liam with his shoulder. liam's head snaps up from where he's been writing  _i feel like a cage_ along his forearm, but zayn pretends not to notice. liam shrugs and stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, and they start walking back to the hotel. 

  
"d'you ever feel like you know where you want to go, but you don't know how to get there?" liam asks softly, so softly it's almost lost in the clattering noises of the city, but zayn only catches it because of how close liam is pressing himself against zayn as they weave down an alleyway (and zayn knows alleys make liam anxious, he knows, but it's the fastest way to get them back to the hotel and it's the fastest way to make sure liam is safe again). zayn doesn't want to answer because his answer is  _yes_  and zayn never lies to liam, but he doesn't want liam to panic any more than he already is so he bites his tongue. liam grabs zayn's hand and holds it tight until they're out of the cramped side-street, releasing it as soon as they round a corner and the hotel is in front of them. (if they're going to spend all their time in this run-away game holed up in hotels, why did they even leave england in the first place? the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he follows liam up the stairs to their room.)

  
immediately, liam falls onto the bed and grabs for his journal on the nightstand while zayn ducks into the bathroom, turning on the shower.

  
he stares at himself in the mirror until it starts to fog up. he still looks like zayn (he doesn't know what he was expecting, honestly, but he was beginning to feel so much like smoke and mirrors that he just had to be sure he still existed. zayn wishes he was better at existing), tired eyes and flat hair. before he can ask himself what the hell he's doing, he steps into the shower and shuts his mind off until the water starts to run cold. 

  
when he steps out of the shower, tucking a towel around his waist and going out to the bedroom, liam is sitting up on the bed, back against the wall staring at his journal. zayn doesn't bother speaking, only goes to rummage through his bag for clothes, when liam starts speaking (reading. liam is reading something from his journal is zayn freezes, because this is territory he's not familiar with, because zayn doesnt share his art with liam and liam doesnt share his writing with zayn, and it feels wrong listening, but zayn can't move): "I'm sorry that i feel like a bruise, like if you press me too hard I'm going to leave a mark. I never wanted to leave a mark." he glances up at zayn, blushes, continues. "I'm sorry that i make you hold my hand when i feel like breaking every dish in the room. people like you are the best in the world, and you make me think of volcanoes and tidal waves and melting ice cream. I'm sorry i tremble so bad when i try to do things alone. I'm sorry i can't answer the phone because it makes me panic. i hope you know that when i press my thumb against the veins in your wrist, it's my way of apologizing. I wish i knew as much about you as you know about me."

  
when he looks up, zayn is pale. zayn doesn't know what this is supposed to mean, and that scares him, because this is another part of liam that he's just seeing and it's too much to handle. he ducks back into the bathroom before he has time to see liam's expression twist into that of pain. 

  
When zayn comes out of the bathroom again, clothed and numb, liam is under the covers, his face pressed into a pillow and the sheets balled up in his fists around him. and this is zayn's fault. (everything is zayn's fault--if it can keep liam from panicking, zayn will take the fault for it.) 

  
this is a liam he's familiar with. this is the liam that curls up and trembles the night before an exam, the liam that doesn't speak for an hour after trying to ask where an aisle is in the grocery store. zayn crawls onto the bed and pulls the sheet back enough to run his fingers along the ridges of liam's shoulders, kneading into the tense muscle. when liam doesn't shove him away, zayn settles into the sheets more snuggly, curling himself around liam's back (and liam tries so hard and zayn just  _can't_  find the words to say because this is liam, all crinkled-eyes and soft knuckles and inky limbs). he tucks his head over liam's shoulder, and almost immediately, liam starts babbling. "i'm sorry i'm like this, i can't breathe though, z, please don't tell me to breathe, okay, i'm sorry i don't know how to fix this because this isn't me it's not how i really am it's like there's something in my skull that takes the best parts of me hostage and i don't know how to stop it--"

  
zayn shushes the panicking boy, runs his fingers through the tuft of hair behind liam's ear. liam's not crying, just hyperventilating, and zayn knows the oly thing he can do is offer liam his touch until his breathing slows (because this is the only way zayn knows how to communicate, with his hands pressed reassuringly against liam's back). 

  
"you make me feel like someone," liam finally rasps softly, saying it more to the pillow than he does to zayn. and he turns over, and zayn doesn't know what to say. (liam is desperate for him to help, looking at zayn with the most wounded expression, and zayn doesn't have enough words in the universe to make a bandage thick enough to cover it. words are liam's job.) now, liam is watery sienna and zayn is bright red, scrambling for anything to say. 

  
"i used to try to draw my mom," zayn starts, because if liam wants to know about zayn, zayn will open his chest and spill his guts. "she bought me my first art set when i was 9, and i really wanted mt first drawing to be of her." zayn thumbs under liam's t-shirt, starts rubbing circles into the boy's hips as he speaks. "but you know, i'm 9, i can't draw for shit. i go to her crying, saying i can't find a color that matches her eyes. and she laughs, she kissed me on the cheek and said she wanted me to draw flowers instead, if it was easier. I still haven't drawn her." he's not sure why he's saying this, he's not sure what the hell this has to do with anything, but liam's breathing is slowing and zayn figures he's doing something right. "the first girl i kissed tasted like bubblegum and i was 13 and it was  _horrible_ , but i thought i was going to marry her." he moves his hands up to play along liam's collarbones and he _knows_  he's crossing boundaries. "the first boy i kissed tasted like vodka and whipped cream and i was 15 and drunk." he feels liam's pulse jump again under his fingertips, but he continues because liam has gone soft and pliant against him, leaning into zayn's touch like a cat, "i broke my arm when i was 16 and that's when i met harry, in the hospital, who broke his ankle because niall dared him to jump off the roof." liam's breath comes out as a silent laugh against zayn's neck. "when i was 17 and started uni, i met louis. and louis met you. and i thought you hated me, really. i never thought i was brave enough to be your friend. and here we are."

  
liam hums softly. "when i was still 17 and trying to befriend you," zayn continues, "i tried reading poetry. i tried so hard to understand it, li, like you have _no idea_. I almost failed biology that first year because i would spend all night trying to figure out what the fuck  _the red wheelbarrow_  meant." 

  
liam is trembling with silent laughter, now, laughter he's burying into zayn's neck. 

  
when zayn pulls away, liam is smiling softly, though his skin is still flushed and he's still picking at a loose thread in the sheets. (the way liam is looking at him makes zayn feel like an endangered species.)

zayn never lies to liam, but that doesn't mean he's completely honest with him. he doesn't tell liam that when liam had his first anxiety attack when he was with zayn, zayn still to this day thinks that liam needs pills and doctors, not journals and a useless painter who thinks he can hold up the world. zayn doesn't tell liam that he's not going to be here forever. zayn doesn't tell liam that this--whatever they are--isn't healthy, it isn't healthy because zayn feels like liam's illness is crawling under his own skin. Zayn doesn’t tell liam that he’s been thinking a lot about mythology lately, and he’s decided that if liam is Andromeda, then zayn is tantalus. zayn doesn't tell liam any of this; zayn just lets liam sleep.


	2. please don't make me feel like a disaster.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam tries to not feel so heavy and Zayn tries to be brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still unbeta'd, still fictional!  
> chapter title from the wonder years.

waking up after a panic attack feels like a hangover. Liam doesn't often drink, but he's young and a college student and he’s been drunk enough to know that tequila and his body don't work very well together.

zayn isn't next to him--it's late, Liam knows by the chill and darkness creeping through the open glass door. there's no familiar bitterness of zayns cigarettes anywhere--zayns not even in the room. Liam is too tired to worry. instead, he drags himself to the bathroom and shoves the dial to cold, not hesitating to strip off his sweaty clothes and duck under the frigid stream. he was okay today, if he can convince himself that reading to zayn from his journal never happened (it's just that some days, everything makes liam anxious, like windshield wipers and puddles and cigarette butts and the backseats of cars, and it's hard to tell what is a good day and a bad day.)

he's not sure how long he stands under the shower, watching the water curl down his arms and drip off his fingertips. liam isn't good with a sense of time--it's either after fifteen minutes or two hours when he finally gets out, shivering until he pulls his hoodie back over his head.

zayn is back in the room, talking too loud and moving too much for him to be sober. he doesn't notice liam; instead, he's slurring into his phone.

"yes I'm still in _fucking_ Venice, Harry."  
liam freezes, still half-way out of the bathroom. zayn never talks like this, and instead of getting scared, liam goes numb.

"I don't know how long, okay. he fucking freaked out today because we went on a goddamn boat ride."

(and nonono, this can't be happening. this isn't zayn, Liam tells himself as he shrinks closer to the wall. his zayn is soft and gentle and calm--this zayn is rough edges and jutting bones and broken knuckles and liam can't think about it, how this drunk stranger sitting on the edge of the bed is not calm at all. liam feels so small.)

"hes so _sad_ is the thing, Haz."

(it wouldn't have hurt if zayn didn't laugh, but the drunk chuckle that punctuates zayn’s sentence hits liam like a punch in the gut.)

"I've been here for three years with him and we keep going in these circles, you know, and... and it wouldn't be so bad if he felt something, right? if he would just try to feel something, it wouldn't be so bad." Liam waits, flinches when he hears zayn sigh wetly. "I hate what he does to me, is all."

(and there's a silence and god, there's a tightness behind Liam's teeth that makes him think his gums are bleeding, makes him think there are spiders behind his eyes and bile is clawing its way up his throat but he can't move, his feet are nailed to the ground, and he is pathetic, liam fucking payne is so pathetic--)

"li?"

when Liam is sure his eyes won't fall out of his head, he looks up to see zayn standing inches away from him. he smells like vodka and his eyes are rimmed with red, bloodshot and sad. liam wonders if zayn feels spiders behind his eyes, too.

zayns mouth drops open into a little "o" and Liam feels a sob building in his chest.

"I'm sorry," Liam whispers, because that's the only thing he knows how to do. apologize, apologize, apologize.

zayn starts shaking his head, slowly at first before he's fisting a hand in his dark hair an poking Liam in the chest with the other. "stop apologizing. I swear to god, liam, if you say sorry one more goddamn time I am going to kill myself."

liam knows zayn doesnt mean it, but something on Liam's face must crack because zayns face falls and he closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I know," liam replies quietly, biting back the urge to say he's sorry again.

and then zayns lips are on Liam's, knocking his breath from his lungs in a gasp of surprise. Liam wonders if zayn thinks he's 15 again.

before the cocoons in Liam's belly can hatch, zayn is falling away from him, stumbling over feet and apologies before he leaves again and Liam is alone.

and Liam--Liam feels like melting ice (it doesn't have to do anything with the wetness on his cheeks, though maybe it does). he wants to dive under covers and curl around his journal because usually his journal is safe. but now. now, it's not safe. nothing is safe in this hotel room because all of it is zayn--the pages in Liam's notebook, the toothbrush on the counter in the bathroom. Liam doesnt want to get under the covers that smell like cinnamon and paint. Liam has to get out. he's not thinking about strangers or alleys or broken bottles when he storms out of the room, determined to get as far away from the hotel as possible.

it's only when he turns down a street three blocks from the hotel that he starts to shake. his hands start trembling because this is somewhere new and zayn isn't with him and before he knows where he's going he's ducking into the first brightly-lit shop he stumbles upon.

"woah. you okay?" a voice with a thick Italian accent asks, and Liam whips around, wide-eyed like a hunted deer. there's a man who could probably break Liam in half standing at a front desk, tattoos dripping from under his tshirt and bushy black beard falling down his chin. Liam is speechless, and the man lets out a raucous laugh that Liam flinches at.

"I know some people are scared of needles, boy, but you're a new type of panic."

Liam stuffs his shaking hands in his pockets and closes his eyes, though he feels his mouth lift into a small smile that probably looks somewhat hysterical. "you have no idea," he mumbles. (he's in a tattoo shop. Liam is in a tattoo shop and he is not thinking about zayn, he isn't, but there's something itching under his skin when he sees the wall of templates before him.)

"I want that," he breathes when his eyes land on a drawing of a feather, long and slim and beautiful. the guy scoffs softly, though it sounds like it's more out of surprise than anything. "you sure? you're not drunk or anything, right? don't want you passing out or something."

(and something catches in Liam's throat when he nods. because it's just. it's just sometimes just when liam loses all hope, there's the kindness of strangers that makes him think maybe he's just too pessimistic.)

Liam is not thinking about zayn when the tattooed man shrugs and plucks the feather drawing off the wall, leading Liam back behind the desk where there are individual booths set up. and everything about this should make liam nervous--the needles and the checkered floor and the dragon on the wall--but he's okay. he's thinking about his mother. he is thinking about whether or not his mother ever expected her son to get a tattoo. he is also thinking about whether or not his mother ever expected her son to have a heart so heavy that a "good day" is when he doesn't walk home thinking about stepping into oncoming traffic.

Liam pokes at his soft skin of his forearm and sits quivering in his chair until the man brings the template forward, rubbing it onto Liam's skin. and the boy feels a rush of adrenaline when the needle whirrs to life. as soon as it touches his skin, Liam lets out the tiniest gasp and he's thinking about zayn. he's thinking about the curve of zayns wrist around a paintbrush, thinking about how when they fall asleep it's like zayn has settled in Liam's chest and stretches over his ribs, keeping the panic out like white blood cells keeping sickness out. Liam has been clinging to zayn for so long, he wonders if zayns heart has claw marks on it. Liam is thinking about Siken's poetry and the meaning of the word "obsessive", he's thinking about how each drag of the needle on his arm is pulling the tension out of his veins. Liam is thinking about where zayn is now, if he's tucked into the corner of a bar, off his face and pressing into old scars like the marks liam never meant to leave.

"d'you think..." Liam is asking before he can stop himself, and the pricking of his skin relents for a moment as the tattoo artist wipes at his skin with a paper towel. "...d'you think the moon loves the dead sea as much as the other oceans?" the constant burn of the needle is making liam sleepy. it makes liam forget that he's not in his dorm with zayn and Niall and Harry and Louis--he's in a tattoo shop in venice while his best friend is off drunk in the streets.

and when the bearded man gives Liam a withered, worried look in return, sadness settles like a vice against Liam's ribs. the needle goes back to biting his arm, and he mumbles, "d'you think the dead sea lets the moon float, anyway?"

"you're a little whacked out, aren't you?" the man asks when he finally sets the gun down and wipes the remains of ink off liam's arm. liam shrugs, too focused on the new feather to answer. it curves up against his veins, and he thinks it's like a quill using his blood for ink. liam thanks the artist, gives him a hefty tip and prods gently at the black bandage that now covers his arm. he wasn't expecting to feel any sort of personal epiphany from the tattoo, but he does feel lighter, like the needle that broke his skin let some of his panic leak out. he's calm enough that he manages to find his way back to the hotel, manages to keep himself carefully composed when he goes into the room.

  
zayn is bent over his sketchbook on the foot of the bed, the pulled back bow of his spine curving gently under his t-shirt. the white sheets around him are stained with black handprints from the charcoal zayn is using, and he has smears of it on his forehead and cheek. liam thinks that he shouldn't be here, now, but its almost like he can still taste the vodka from zayn's mouth still on his own.

  
when zayn finally looks up, his eyes find liam's bandaged arm immediately and he's standing up, concern washing over his worn face. "what--"

  
liam shrugs, peels back the bandage on the new tattoo even though it's still too fresh. zayn just stares at it for a while, frown etched into his face. (and liam is thinking about how his decisions always have some sort of collateral damage, how he can't do anything for himself without making someone else worried in the process.)

  
"it's great," zayn finally mumbles before he turns back to the bed and shoves his sketchbook in the nightstand drawer. (liam is thinking about the edges of zayn, in his cheekbones and knuckles. hes thinking about sleep soft and warm zayn when he's barely conscious, he wants to wax poetic about how savage zayn's mouth looks but how his fingers are so, so careful.)

  
liam is biting his tongue. he wants to say sorry, though he's not sure why--he wasnt the one who got drunk and disappeared. it's probably because liam never gets mad (at anyone but himself). and he thinks that maybe he should get mad sometimes, because anger would be better than this constant aching panic. but he wont get mad here, not here and not now because zayn is falling into his arms and clutching to liam's t-shirt like a lifeline.

  
"I feel like i don't exist anymore, li," zayn says softly, and the words bury themselves deeper in liam's chest than anything zayn has said to him so far. zayn is still drunk and liam is still numb, so they stay like this, zayn tucking his face into liam's collarbone. "all i do is worry about you. you, you, you, all the time. it's like i'm not even a person anymore."

  
liam has nothing to say. usually, his mind would be brimming with fragmented thoughts pierced with semi-colons and parenthesis and too many periods, but now there's nothing. liam knows how drained the painter is. he heard it in his voice and saw it in his drunk eyes. but it's just. liam can't live without zayn, is the thing. to liam, zayn is dragonflies and warm sand and new sweaters and Sunday mornings. zayn is liam's calm, zayn is liam's _everything_ (and liam is thinking that maybe the word "obsession" isn't so romantic after all).

  
when the only things he has in this world are a worn journal and an equally worn artist by his side, liam starts to think that maybe zayn deserves better. (no-- he _knows_ zayn deserves better.)

  
"I'm sorry" is caught in his throat and he wants to let it out, wants to chant it like a mantra until zayn does...something. liam doesn't know what he wants zayn to do--to leave, to yell, to kiss him again (because liam is thinking about what zayn tastes like when he's sober, liam wants to leave huckleberry kisses on zayn's neck dark enough that they would put zayn's box of purple and indigo paints to shame). instead, zayn pulls away from him and they stand a foot away from each other, both withered and worn and too tired for boys who haven't even graduated uni yet. that's all they are, liam realizes with a sinking feeling in his chest as zayn fumbles for a cigarette just so he can avoid liam's eyes. liam is just a sad boy who can't answer phone calls and zayn tries so hard to keep the whole world up.

  
"maybe," liam begins slowly, because his heart is beating the shit out if his ribcage and each word feels like he's coughing up blood, "we're not..." he can't breathe and he's not sure if it's because of the cigarette smoke or the jack rabbit kicking out his lungs.

"I think," zayn says after a cough, "you've read too much poetry, and i've spent too many days looking at you like a color."

  
liam doesn't know anything about colors, but he thinks if zayn was a color, he would be a dark, deep blue. There’s a silence so loud liam wants to shut his eyes and cover his ears, but he forces himself to stay put. He knows what’s coming. “so. what do we do.” It’s not a question.

  
zayn shrugs. liam wonders if he misses his family. He wouldn’t blame zayn if he left right now to go back to bradford and leave liam with charcoal sheets and a city full of possibilities liam will be too scared to ever take.

  
“let me sleep on it,” zayn says, and his tone sounds like he’s talking to a child, and it stings. zayn crawls into the chalky sheets, the streak of charcoal on his cheek marring his pillow like war paint.

  
And because there’s only one bed and he needs him and he figures that the moon needs the oceans just as much as the oceans need the moon, liam curls himself around zayn soon after, hands balled up against his chest like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do people read these or am I just typing merrily away


	3. eventually the birds must land.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> liam is probably a new soul, and zayn is desperate and impulsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet again, unbeta'd + fictional.  
> title of the chapter from "unfinished duet" by richard siken.

_"i love you more than my own skin,_  
 _and even though you don't love me the same,_  
 _you love me anyways, don't you?_  
 _and if you don't, i'll always have the hope that you do,_  
 _and i'm satisfied with that._  
 _love me a little. i adore you."_  
 _-frida kahlo_

zayn doesnt have any idea what he's going to do. he used to think that he would sacrifice anything for liam, he'd jump in front of a bus for the kid, but he's not that strong. he's not that strong and he's not that selfless. zayn hates this--hates like he feels like he's in a fucking soap opera, because liam isn't going to get better no matter how many countries they go to. And zayn has to deal with that or leave, but he can’t keep playing in this limbo they’ve been in for years.

zayn thinks that’s the difference between them, because when liam has knots under his ribs and panic in his throat he just deals with it. he writes or he gets a tattoo and he just _gets through it_. zayn can’t. zayn drinks or smokes or shuts himself out from everyone else and convinces himself that he’ll be okay. It’s worked so far but now it feels like he’s drowning every time liam looks at him (though it’s always kind of been like this, but at least before when liam looked at him, zayn knew where the surface was and he had a lungful of air enough to get to there. now he’s just floundering. There’s a reason zayn hates water.)

zayn also knows that liam isn’t like this by choice. zayn knows how hard liam tries. (it’s just that sometimes it’s so hard to not tell him to just suck it up and stop shaking. It’s so hard to not just leave him.) zayn knows that liam is much, much stronger than he gives himself credit for.

but there have been so many nights where liam has come to sleep in zayn’s dorm because he’s scared of monsters under the bed or the way the tree branch taps at his window (and that’s not fair at all for zayn. It’s not fair that he has to be this steady anchor when liam curls himself around zayn those nights, because liam makes it hard for zayn to even see straight when he nuzzles against zayn’s neck. It’s not fair that liam can come and go as he pleases but zayn is always stuck wondering what color their kisses would be).

so zayn is selfish. Zayn wants to see liam in one of zayn’s sweatshirts, he wants to see what liam looks like against a shower wall or biting his lip raw for a reason other than a panic attack. he wants to see what liam looks like after sex, he wants to know if liam would be too fucked to articulate a poem or not.

zayn never lies to liam, but there’s a lot he doesn’t tell him. he doesn’t ever yell, even when he wants to.  because zayn is sick of the broken apologies liam spits out late at night, he’s sick of listening to liam’s sad excuses as to why he “just can’t handle getting close to someone” (even though he had a pillow on zayn’s bed and all of zayn’s sheets smell like ink on the weekends). he’s tired, he’s so tired and he knows that liam is just a sad boy who can’t help the way he is but that doesn’t mean zayn’s not allowed to get mad about it. they’re 20 and young and zayn misses his mum. He misses being home and he misses what it was like to get drunk for fun with harry and niall and Louis instead of getting drunk to numb the effect liam has on him. none of this is fair to zayn, but he will always come back to liam.

But it’s been four years and nothing has changed and he can’t keep torturing himself like this.

“liam,” he murmurs, and it’s so late and liam looks so serene but zayn has to do this. As soon as his eyes are slivers of consciousness, amber and honey in the moonlight, zayn slots his lips against liam’s. liam gasps again like he did the first time (zayn wants to know if liam gasps into every kiss like that. zayn wants to know if liam is a virgin. because zayn may be able to read every one of liam’s movements like a book, but he still doesn’t know anything about the boy’s body).

“zayn?” liam mumbles uncertainly. Zayn wishes he was a poet because he wants to write sonnets about liam’s lips and the way they wrap carefully around zayn’s name. something in zayn’s chest is about to snap, and his heart is hammering out an sos against his ribs. The half-second of hesitation feels like too long but zayn waits, because zayn always waits. zayn will always wait for liam.

Half a second later, though, liam is kissing him back, licking curiously into zayn’s mouth in a way that sends shivers down the painter’s back. if the last kiss was the dark maple of whiskey, this one is like champagne, bubbly and sweet and zayn wants to make toasts to this boy for the rest of his life. Liam doesn’t taste unfamiliar to zayn—maybe it’s because zayn has always known what liam will taste like if he stands too close. What is unfamiliar are the little whimpers that are coming out of liam’s mouth and dissolving against zayn’s tongue and zayn is thinking of cherry pits and morse code and the dogwood red of sunrises.

the writer and the painter are kissing in a small, charcoal-stained bed in the middle of venice and zayn knows this isn’t going to make everything better--if anything, this is going to fuck them up even more. zayn has never been religious, but he thinks that liam’s mouth might be one of the most sacred things he’s ever seen. zayn thinks that in a past life, he was plain vanilla or an overcast day. he thinks that maybe this is the first time liam has been on this earth. maybe liam is a new soul and that’s why he’s so nervous all the time. zayn thinks liam has the soul of a chameleon. zayn likes drawing chameleons. zayn is not allowed to draw liam.

“zayn, zayn, zayn,” liam pants out against zayn’s mouth before he’s pushing himself away. his mouth is swollen and zayn has scruffed his hair all over his forehead. There’s only one lovebite on the birthmark on liam’s neck (zayn wishes he had his paints and a canvas). zayn is trying very hard to not cry or scream or leave the room. (and if liam says _sorry_ , so help him--)

“D’you ever realize how gone you are for someone?” liam rushes out in a gasp.

“yeah, replies zayn, because zayn never lies to liam. And liam breaks into a grin that zayn thinks is the same orange as a tiger lily.

zayn knows this isn’t going to fix anything. zayn is looking at liam’s neck and his fingers flit over the feather on his arm and zayn is going to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

“I drew you,” zayn whispers as he rolls over and starts shuffling through the nightstand, sitting up and pulling out his sketchbook. He’s not sure why this seems so urgent, but he’s ripping through the pages until he finds the charcoal sketch. he was drunk and it’s sloppy and smeared, but the lines of liam’s cheek are smooth and the black shadows under his neck curve to the end of the page. He still couldn’t get liam’s lips right, but he thinks now if liam let him kiss him enough he could get them just right. zayn doesn’t tell liam that he’s broken his only rule in his drunken state—zayn still hasn’t drawn his own mother but he’s drawn this boy with the too-long limbs and sleepy, crinkled eyes. He can’t find it in himself to get mad, though, not when liam is smiling vibrantly when zayn puts the sketchbook in his lap.

“this is amazing,” liam manages softly, rubbing a finger on the smeared corner of the page. “really, zayn.”

That’s enough for zayn. the way liam’s expression softens when he looks up, the way zayn’s charcoal-smudged thumb has left a streak on liam’s jaw, it’s enough for zayn to know that this boy is worth it in all of his sadness and shallow breath. And maybe venice wasn’t the best idea but it made this happen, and zayn doesn’t know if they’d ever be doing this if they were still in England and zayn was still a coward (zayn is still a coward, but he’s telling himself that maybe now the vodka and whiskey and charcoal has given him more of a spine).

“have you drawn anyone else?” liam asks as he eyes the other pages of the sketchbook uncertainly.

“no,” zayn replies quietly, because zayn never lies to liam.

“liam,” zayn finally says, even though liam isn’t looking at him anymore—he’s peeking at the other pages of zayn’s sketchbook, and zayn is so relieved, zayn is smiling, zayn is spilling his guts, zayn is still thinking about mythology when he murmurs, “i think andromeda was probably the most beautiful thing in the world.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still have no idea why i even wrote this??/ sorry?? ?

**Author's Note:**

> this came out of nowhere probably bc i had an anxiety attack last night um i dont know if i have the motivation to finish it (thats a lie i'll probably finish it) but welp there u go i tried


End file.
